


no future left to waste

by write_away



Series: Subject E-308 [3]
Category: The AM Archives (Podcast), The Bright Sessions (Podcast), The Infinite Noise - Lauren Shippen
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, IT'S HEREEEEEE, M/M, TAMA and TIN are not required reading for this fic, This is NOT TCT compliant and characterizations may differ, Tier Five Caleb, caleb went to tier five after safehouse and adam didn't quite move on but he sure as hell tried
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-16
Updated: 2020-09-16
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:41:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26502328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/write_away/pseuds/write_away
Summary: It’s his senior year of college, and Adam Hayes is doing all right. Sure, he has no idea what he wants to do with his degree, he can’t seem to hold down a relationship, and four years ago, his high school sweetheart nearly beat a man to death and was disappeared by a top-secret government facility - which happens to be run by his aunt - buthonestly.He’s fine.So is Caitlin Park, who has a perfectly planned path that she intends to follow straight to success, no matter how often her gaze strays. So is Ryan Tran, who knows a lie when he hears one but can’t explain why as the knowledge picks away at him with each interaction.All they want to do is get to graduation and maybe figure out how to breathe freely. Oh, and find out what happened to Caleb Michaels. No big deal.They’re sure he’s fine… Right?[This fic is part of the Subject E-308 AU, but stands alone and prior reading is not needed!]
Relationships: Adam Hayes/Caleb Michaels
Series: Subject E-308 [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1585576
Comments: 16
Kudos: 26





	no future left to waste

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to the fic that has ruined my life.
> 
> In all seriousness, this fic has love, tears, and sweat poured into it, and I hope you enjoy it! Even though most of it will certainly be coming out after The College Tapes is released, this is in no way compliant with anything we learn or with characterizations (particularly of Caitlin). I have been having a blast exploring this canon divergence, and I really look forward to sharing it with you all. 
> 
> Though I use characters from The Infinite Noise and The AM Archives in this fic, neither are required reading/listening to understand this fic. Nor are the earlier fics in this series, though if you'd like to see how Caleb has been doing, I highly recommend you check them out.
> 
> I'd also like to thank the scream hole for letting me, well, scream about this fic for literal months and Owen Not!Green for beta-ing this first chapter for me :) My thanks also go out to E, because I borrowed their last name for Ryan because last names? No thanks. 
> 
> Without further adieu - enjoy!
> 
> (CWs in the endnotes)

1.

Ryan isn’t sure what to expect when he agrees to meet with Caitlin Park over Thanksgiving break, but it sure as hell isn’t Adam Hayes perched on the bar stool beside her, staring into his beer as if it holds the answers to life. 

Ryan isn’t an idiot - he knows that Caitlin and Hayes were friends back in high school, knows that this is what people _do_ on their very short visits home from college - but he doesn’t think he’s ever had a full conversation with the guy, not even when he was dating Michaels. 

And especially not after - well, _after._

He’s not homophobic, he swears, but - well, that sounds bad, even to himself. It’s just that there’s always been something about Hayes that makes Ryan feel like he’s being put underneath a microscope and studied. Ryan doesn’t think he can recall a time when the dude’s eyes weren’t distant and guarded. In the end, though, they just don’t have much in common besides the fact that a kid they both knew in high school went to juvie during senior year and was never heard from again.

Whoop-dee-doo. He also has that in common with _Tyler,_ and they’re not exactly winning awards for being best buddies, are they?

Ryan swallows his anxiety anyway and closes the distance between him and the bar. He’s more mature than this. He’s going to graduate summa cum laude, if things go according to plan, and he will not be scared away by simple small talk.

“Hey,” he says and cringes internally at how lame it sounds. He slides into the empty seat beside Caitlin, “Long time no see.”

Caitlin laughs at his corniness - thank God - and throws her arms around his shoulders in greeting. Ryan feels the pit in his stomach loosen. He and Jess hadn’t worked out in the end, but it was honestly for the best. He’s glad they ended things civilly; Caitlin would have never tolerated him if he broke her best friend’s heart. She is the best person to text at 3 am if he needs a paper proofread before class and the worst person to have as an enemy.

Hayes is watching them curiously, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. Ryan can’t help but wonder if he’d ever had a welcome like that before. He’d been a loner in high school, not necessarily through any fault of his own, and there’s a part of Ryan that wonders if it’s followed him into college. 

“Hayes,” he greets with a nod instead of asking. 

Hayes nods back. “Hey,” he says and takes a sip of his beer. “Good to see you.”

He’s lying - Ryan _knows_ he’s lying. He doesn’t know how, because Hayes truly has an incredible poker face, a perfectly performed smile, but he knows in his gut that the guy wants to be anywhere but here, seeing him. 

“You too,” he says, biting back the call-out that is on the tip of his tongue. He’s learned it’s easier to keep these things to himself. Caitlin is between them, watching them both expectantly, but Hayes sure as hell isn't about to open his mouth so Ryan bites the bullet. “Yale, right? You like it there?” 

Conversation flows a little easier from there, if stuttering and stumbling over every few words can count as a flow. All three are single. All three are stressed about school and graduation and the job hunt. All three have been binge-watching Danny Phantom to cope with adulthood. 

All three, it seems, have developed a taste for alcohol. 

Forty minutes and two tequila shots into reminiscing about high school, Ryan swallows his pride with lime and makes up his mind. 

“So, Hayes,” he says, cutting off Caitlin mid-rant about debate club. “What’s Michaels up to these days? He’s gotta be out of juvie at this point, right? Or jail, I guess.”

Caitlin stumbles to a stop and for a moment, Ryan thinks she’s going to glare him into submission and continue on her tirade about sexism in the national conference, but strangely, all she does is frown at Hayes as well. 

Hayes goes pale and reaches for his drink, his eyes falling when he finds it empty. “Oh, uh. I don’t know,” he mumbles and picks at the black polish on his thumb. A chip flutters down to his lap, then another, and another. “Haven’t heard from him since - yeah. He’s probably out by now, though, I guess.”

Ryan’s stomach jolts. There’s a lie in that, but he doesn’t have a clue what it is. 

Hayes is looking like a deer caught in headlights, though, and Caitlin is frowning deep in concern, so Ryan just clears his throat and flags down the bartender. “Another round?” he asks the other two. 

Hayes nods so fast that his hair flops in front of his face, and Ryan would be lying to himself if he isn’t just as relieved to feel the cheap alcohol burn away the awkward silence that follows.

* * *

By the time they’re arguing over paying the tab, Caitlin feels… _good._ No. Not the right word. Too drunk for the right word. Her head is fuzzy and her hands are tingling and her cheeks are warm as she digs through her purse for cash to leave a tip. The bartender - Farrah was her name, Caitlin thinks, and now she can’t _stop_ thinking about the way her hair tumbles down to the small of her back, about the sliver of skin that reveals itself every time she reaches up to get a glass, about -

 _Fuck_. Caitlin may be drunker than she planned to be.

And it’s not her fault, not really, because Ryan was the one who kept ordering shots and Adam was the one who kept taking them, and she wasn’t going to be _outdone_ by the two of them, no way. She isn’t the type of girl to back down from a challenge. She isn’t the type of girl to back down _ever._

Adam and Ryan are still bickering when she hands Farrah her card. “I’ll have them Venmo me,” she stage-whispers and tries not to combust when their fingers brush.

“You got it, sugar,” Farrah whispers back with a wink.

Caitlin suddenly feels dizzy. She definitely drank too much. She says it out loud, mostly to herself, to check how slurred her speech is. 

“You’re telling me,” Adam mumbles from where his head is cradled in his arms across the bar. “My mom is going to _kill_ me if I puke on the carpet again.”

Ryan, who seems sober except for a high red flush that creeps from his ears to his cheeks, laughs and stands to extend a hand to Caitlin. She takes it and jumps down from the barstool, leaning against him until she’s sure that her legs aren’t actually jelly.

“You didn’t _have_ to agree to another round,” Ryan reminds them both. “Here, take your coat, Hayes.”

Adam groans as Ryan pulls him out of his seat, but obliges.

Farrah returns with the receipt and a pen. “Your boyfriend is going to have a rough morning,” she says with a wicked grin as she hands it over. She nods at Adam and Ryan who are both struggling into their jackets and scarves. “Best hangover cure I know is pickle juice. Crack a raw egg on top and just drink up. I know it sounds gross, but,” and here she winks again, “It works.”

Caitlin’s legs are definitely jelly. Well, shit. She scribbles an approximate of her signature on the receipt and pushes it back across the bar. “We’re not - he’s - I’ll be sure to let him know,” she says, grabs her coat, and ushers the boys out front before she falls right over.

Seeing Adam and Ryan has been… _nice._ Nice isn’t the right word, either, but it will have to do. She’s just glad it wasn’t _too_ awkward, bringing the boys together after all these years. It’s not like they’ve ever hung out all at once before. She wishes she could have made plans with them each, given them both the time they deserve like she usually does, but frankly - that time just doesn’t exist anymore. Senior year is a killer, and she has studying to do during her break, and that job interview tomorrow and - 

“Oh, fuck,” she says a lot louder than she intended. Several passersby stumble as they turn to look at her; Ryan pauses with his thumb hovering over the Uber app. “I have a _job interview_ in the morning.”

Adam and Ryan’s mouths twist in twin frowns of sympathy, but Caitlin doesn’t have the brain space to consider _pity._ She needs a plan. She needs a water bottle. She needs her bed.

She _definitely_ needs to hurl, so she does. Part of her, distantly, knows she should be embarrassed about the fact that she’s retching in the garbage can outside the bar, but she can’t be the first person and she certainly won’t be the last. _Won’t Mom and Dad be_ **_so_ ** _proud,_ she thinks with a wince.

“Fun night,” she hears Adam say brightly as he pats her back. “We should do this again sometime.”

Caitlin doesn’t have it in her to tell him to fuck off because he’s _right,_ it _was_ fun once they ended the whole Mystery of Caleb Michaels conversation and started the one where they grilled Adam for details on his most recent break-up with a douchebag named Garrett whose most redeeming quality was apparently his prowess in bed. She has friends at college, but they’re all from class or student gov or her work study. She doesn’t know the last time she just sat back and _laughed_. She misses this. She would do this again. 

Well. Not _this_ part.

She lets them bundle her into the Uber that she hadn’t been aware they were planning to share, and closes her eyes against the ebb and flow of nausea as the car weaves through the city. Ryan smells nice, and his cologne is stronger than the taste of upchucked tequila, so she leans her head against his shoulder and breathes his scent in deeply. She must doze off at some point, because she wakes to Ryan nudging her shoulder. 

“This is your house, Cait,” Ryan says.

“Good luck tomorrow,” Adam says.

Caitlin takes a shaky breath in through her nose. “Pickle juice,” she says and stumbles out of the car, ignoring the pang in her chest as she says goodnight and knows she won’t see them again for God knows how long. That’s just how high school friendships are, right? 

Anyway. Sleep now. Interview tomorrow.

The rest, she can deal with after.

* * *

Adam wakes up first to a barrage of chimes on his phone. Then, to a pounding on his door. Then, to a pounding headache. 

He slaps at the alarm button and drags the pillow over his head with a groan. “What?” he shouts through the fluff at the door.

“Look alive, _ben-yokhid!_ ” his father shouts through the door, punctuating his statement with one last knock. “Your aunt will be here for brunch in forty minutes and we need you up, showered, and working on the eggs.”

Adam isn’t sure if the thought of his aunt or the eggs makes his stomach lurch worse, but he mumbles an affirmative anyway and waits until footsteps have retreated to roll over to grab his phone and check the time - it reads 9:42 AM.

_3 Unread Messages from Caitlin Park_

_7:02 AM  
_ _Adam, I feel like I’m dying, I am never going to survive my interview_

 _7:04 AM  
_ _The bartender told me to try pickle juice and raw eggs for my hangover. Is it worth it???_

 _7:33 AM  
_ _So, my mom just walked into the kitchen to see me chugging pickle juice and raw egg out of a jar while wearing a suit and heels, so I think she may be reconsidering that whole adoption process from 20 years ago_

Adam wants to laugh at the image, but even a giggle makes his head throb, so he stifles a snort and taps out a response from underneath the pile of blankets.

_bit late for that, isn’t it? what did you do with the pickles? when is the interview?_

He’s still trying to facilitate negotiations between his stomach, his brain, and his limbs when his phone pings with a response.

 _9:48 AM  
_ _12 minutes. Put ‘em on a plate and then ate like five. It actually helped??? I’m shook_

He sends a quick _good luck,_ braces himself, and rolls to the floor, blanket and all. There’s a good chance _he’s_ going to need the luck this morning.

It takes much longer than it should to drag himself into a shower and scrub away the smell of sweat and Caitlin’s perfume from sitting too close in the backseat of the Uber, but the cool stream of water does wonders for his headache and brushing his teeth feels more wonderful than the ordinary act has any right to.

His mother is already flipping pancakes by the time he stumbles into the kitchen in a t-shirt and jeans fresh out of the dryer to take his place at the stove. Without looking away from the pan, she presses a kiss to his forehead and runs her hand through the damp coils. “Dye is fading,” she comments in greeting. “Want to touch-up tonight? We can put on some old movies, hang out while it sets in. Just you and me.”

Adam shrugs and ducks his head out of her grasp. He knows what she’s doing. He’s not falling for it. “Garrett said he’d help me when we got back to school,” he lies and starts to crack eggs into the bowl. “Dad, can you grab me the paprika while you’re in the pantry?”

He can feel his mom’s disapproving look even as he studiously gathers up eggshells for the compost bin. “I thought you and Garrett had a fight,” she says carefully. “I thought he stormed off.”

Adam shrugs. “Yeah. It was whatever. We made up,” he says even though he hasn’t spoken to Garrett since he fucking _teleported_ away from an argument. He hasn’t told his mother about that part, of course. He also hasn’t told her about the fact that the guy he went out with freshman year was a hydrokinetic, or the time traveler from psych class.

Atypicals are an unofficially banned topic in the Hayes household now, and Adam does not mind one bit. 

She nods once and returns to the pancakes.

His dad delivers the paprika just as Adam starts to beat the eggs with maybe a little more force than necessary. “Are we still mad about Garrett, then?” he asks cautiously.

“ _No,”_ Adam snaps, but he slows down his stirring just a bit. It’s not his parents’ fault that he’s hungover and tired and can’t seem to stop falling for atypicals who break his heart. Still. “Also, _we?_ He was _my_ boyfriend, not ours.” 

The doorbell rings.

“Elijah, take over,” Adam’s mom says and hands over the spatula. “That’ll be my sister.”

Adam tries to suppress his scowl. _Annabelle,_ on the other hand, is definitely their fault.

It’s not that he hasn’t seen his aunt since That Night, but that doesn’t make it any easier to look the woman in the eye and not want to _know._ He’s better off without the knowledge, that much is certain, but there’s no way around the fact that his high school sweetheart will probably never see the light of day again and it’s all her fault.

 _Sweetheart._ God, that sounds pathetic. Ex. His high school ex. It’s not like he hasn’t dated _plenty_ since, even if his judgement has been admittedly… poor. 

Adam stirs in the garlic powder, paprika, pepper, red chili flakes, and ricotta cheese until the mixture is smooth and pours it into the hot pan, trying his hardest to ignore the overly joyful greetings taking place at the front door. He’s made it a point to not be home for brunch in four years. Of course it has to be the morning after he’s been jarringly reminded about the vicious lies that have been spread about Caleb when it’s finally unavoidable. 

He should have known that Ryan was going to bring up Caleb, but that didn’t make him more prepared. 

He should have fielded the topic with ease. How does he not have better practice at this? How does he _still_ not know how to talk about Caleb? Isn’t this supposed to be what the fucking therapist was for? 

Adam stirs the eggs in the pan with a jerky motion and barely saves it from spilling over the edge. The last time he talked about Caleb in therapy, he’d had to be so careful about what he said and what he revealed that he never bothered again. It was the same bullcrap story that had been fed to the school, to the papers, to _everywhere:_ Caleb Michaels was arrested and charged for aggravated assault and left a man in a coma. Motive unknown. Sentenced to three years in prison.

 _Three years._ Ha. If only. 

But he can’t do this right now, can’t afford to do this while Annabelle is standing in his living room exchanging pleasantries, can’t afford to think about how Caleb hasn’t seen the sunlight in four years, can’t think about how he may never see it again, can’t think about how he’s to blame because it was _for him,_ it’s his fault, it’s all his fault, and - 

He doesn’t realize he’s breathing heavily until his father’s hands are on his shoulders, holding him steady. “In and out, now, slowly,” he’s saying and Adam tries to obey while the spatula is pried from his hands.

“They’re done,” he manages to choke out, gesturing at the scrambled eggs. “I need to -”

His dad is already taking the pan off the stove and pouring the contents into a serving bowl. “Already on it. Did you take your meds this morning?”

Adam hasn’t. He nods anyway. “Just don’t feel good,” he mumbles and sucks in another breath. That one seems to do the trick of lifting the edges of fog. He shakes his head and tries to plaster on a smile. “Guess I’ve learned my lesson about tequila shots?”

His dad laughs and shakes his head. “Just like you learned about Manischewitz wine last Pesach. Ah well. Better you learn it now than later, _nu?_ ” He pats his arm gently. “Take some Advil, then go say hi to your aunt - she was disappointed she had to miss Thanksgiving for work. I’m going to get this food on the table.”

Adam thinks he would rather walk into a burning building than go say hi to his aunt, but he wipes his hands on a paper towel anyway and makes his way over to the living room. He stops at the threshold.

Sometimes, Adam feels like he has three versions of his Aunt Annabelle tucked away in his head, all of them overlaid like a strange art piece or virtual reality. He’s never sure which one is real, which one he can trust - his hero, the warm and loving woman who rocked him to sleep by reading Shakespeare sonnets and took him to his first Pride at seven, who knew where he belonged long before he did? The severe strategist who can make hundreds of employees and prisoners shake at the mere mention of her name, the woman whose pursuit for knowledge knows no bounds?

Or this - the stiff stranger in his living room who is fidgeting with the hem of her sweater?

“Hi, Aunt Annabelle,” he greets quietly. She snaps her head in his direction and the tension seems to seep out of her. 

“Adam,” she says with such intensity in her voice that, for just a moment, he is six years old and she is the light of his world. “You look - well.”

Well, _that’s_ blatantly untrue, but he mumbles a “thanks” anyway and runs his hand through his hair. It’s not like it can get much messier at this point, and it’s all he can do to feign some level of casualness. The last time he and Annabelle were able to have a conversation that didn’t feel like pulling teeth was back before he knew the truth about her work. He runs through possible topics in his head - school, graduation, job searches, fucking _Garrett_ _-_ but all of them make him feel even sicker. 

His phone pings, and he could kiss it with relief. “Sorry,” he says to his mom as he wrestles it out of his back pocket to check the screen. _Text Message from Caitlin Park._

 _10:43 AM  
I _ _got the job? I’m filling out paperwork?? Thank God for Farrah._

“Adam, don’t be rude,” his mom chastises as he taps out a reply ( _congrats, that was fast!! you didn’t say where?? also - farrah??)_ but he ignores her.

“Table’s ready!” his dad shouts from the dining room, and Adam swears he hears his aunt mutter “thank God” under her breath.

Maybe they’ll survive this brunch after all. 

* * *

Owen sighs at the pile of NDAs on his desk, ink still wet and glistening, and briefly considers putting off the filing until Monday. 

It’s not that it will take long to digitize and sort the paperwork for the newest agent, but he’s sleep deprived, stressed, and over-stuffed with leftover turkey. There are at least three new atypicals that need to be added to the system before they begin their in-patient program, and he just doesn’t know how he’s going to muster up the energy to greet them. It seems, unfortunately, that big family holidays bring out the worst in their... _particular_ population. 

God, he’s already dreading Christmas. 

At any rate, he’s not sure he has it in him to get through her background check. 

He takes a long sip of coffee and tries to weigh the pros and cons.

On one hand, if he finishes this now, he can have Agent Dashwood in the system and ready for orientation by the end of the day. Procrastination only leads to more work in the end, and he doesn’t think he wants to explain to Ellie that he’s in the office late because of his own negligence. Better it be for reasons of proactivity or ambition - much more respectable workaholic behavior.

On the other hand, it would be nice to take a moment to breathe after the string of interviews that morning. He feels like he hasn’t slept in a week - between setting up the Thanksgiving dinner for in-patients and cooking for his own family and sharing a bed with his younger sister who _kicks_ monstrously in her sleep for two days… well, it’s not like he’s had a lot of time to rest. Perhaps he could take a half hour to go for a stroll with one of the atypicals, or check in on the rest of the staff. 

A knock on the door almost startles the coffee mug right out of his hand. He just barely manages to save it from hitting the floor, but some sloshes over the edge and drenches his pants - room temperature, thankfully. He winces - he supposes he’ll have to do a dry cleaning trip tomorrow - and turns to the door. “Yes?” he says, perhaps a bit more snappish than intended.

“Sorry, boss,” Agent Crawford says with a sheepish grin. Owen tries to relax. He likes Agent Crawford, though having atypicals on staff is a relatively new development. It’s a good one, he thinks. Good to show the patients that their worlds are not limited. Good to show them that they too can have a role in shaping their lives.

Still. Superspeed can be unnerving sometimes when it’s unexpected. He’s glad that Crawford mostly works in security.

Owen reaches for a tissue and blots at his knee. “No harm done, Agent,” he says. “Is everything all right?”

Crawford grimaces. “Yes - mostly. Just - there’s some commotion downstairs with one of the out-patients? Alice Michaels? Super-strength?” he says as if trying to jog Owen’s memory.

Owen does not need his memory jogged about Alice Michaels. He’s already on his feet and reaching for his walkie to page for backup. “What’s she doing? Is everyone safe?”

“Yeah, yeah!” Crawford says in a rush, his eyes wide. “She’s fine - she’s - it’s not a big deal, she’s just a little upset? Thanksgiving is rough for us all, y’know.” He pauses and gestures to himself. “Like, _us_ all, I mean.”

This, Owen thinks, is the problem with having atypicals on the staff. They don’t see the big picture, the _danger_ of having a super-strength human roaming the halls while angry and sad and looking to lash out. They don’t understand that the rest of the world can’t protect themselves from the likes of them. Agent Crawford is a good man, he really is, but his first instinct will always be to protect his kind.

He takes a deep breath. 

“She’s not picking anything - or _anyone_ \- up?” Owen clarifies.

Crawford shakes his head. “Just crying and demanding to see someone in charge. Director Wadsworth is out, so -” 

“Next best thing,” Owen finishes with a nod. “Got it. Thank you, Agent Crawford. I’ll go speak with her.”

Something he likes about Agent Crawford - he knows when he’s been dismissed. Before Owen can even blink, the man is gone. 

He shoves the NDAs into a folder, places it into his “To Do” pile, and pages Medical for a sedative just in case. Alice Michaels is hardly irrational, which means she’s trying to get something out of him, and there’s no way to accurately assess the risk when she’s in one of these moods. He’ll just have to deal with Agent Dashwood later.

* * *

“Is it possible to overdose on coffee?” Caitlin asks and peers contemplatively at the large cold brew she has cradled in both hands. She hadn’t planned to grab coffee with Adam after her interview - honestly, she hadn’t planned to do anything but study for her GREs until she returned to campus - but he had texted around noon to insist on a celebration.

So now they’re here, and Caitlin has a job, and her entire world has turned on its head but she’s going to fail her GREs anyway. Wonderful. 

It’s… awkward. Caitlin sees Adam in person roughly three times a year, and never more than once in a weekend. Their texting isn’t much more frequent; milestones and random hellos are more than good enough for the two of them. In any case, Adam almost never initiates contact.

So this? This is weird.

Adam’s brow furrows. “Yes,” he says somberly and slowly drags the cold brew out of her hands. He replaces it with a mug of chamomile tea. “You’re bouncing, Cait.”

Is she? She looks down at her leg. She is. Well, it’s hard not to when anyone around her could be atypical.

 _God,_ even Adam could be atypical. She’s always thought there was something strange about him… like he knows too much, sees too much… 

No. She tries to shake the thought from her head. That’s ridiculous. 

“Oh.” She brings the cup to her face and tries to control her jitters. The scent of chamomile is soothing but it’s got nothing on the way her stomach is twisting. She can’t help but feel like she’s on high alert, looking for something out of place.

“So, uh, congrats?” Adam interrupts her train of thought with a crooked grin. “On the job?”

Caitlin breathes in the tea vapors and smiles into the cup. She’s not sure how much of her headache is from the hangover, and how much is from all the new information boiling in her brain like a kettle about to shriek with its lid locked down by NDAs. “Thanks,” she says and lifts her head to grin at him directly. “And - thanks for this.” She gestures at the tea and plate of cookies on the table between them. “You really didn’t have to.”

Adam gives her a long-suffering look. “Yes, I did,” he says gravely. “And thank _you_ for giving me a reason to get out of my house.”

This, Caitlin can deal with. She laughs. “I’m _so_ glad my sister doesn’t live at home anymore. If I had to share a room with her still, I think I’d be crazy by the end of Thanksgiving break.” She knows Adam is an only child, but she thinks he can probably empathize. She has him pegged as the type of guy who likes his space.

“I bet,” he mutters. He wrinkles his nose as he sips her coffee. “You like this _so_ bitter,” he complains and reaches for the sugar packets across the table. “Anyway,” he says as he rips four open and pours them in, “what is this job again?”

“Government,” she says swiftly and wishes she couldn’t feel her heart pounding in time with her still-bouncing leg. “I can’t actually talk about it much. It’s basically all confidential,” she admits. And with good reason, she thinks. She can’t imagine the panic that would go through the population if they knew - the literal witch hunts. She’s seen _Captain America: Civil War,_ she knows how the public feels about superpowers. 

This doesn’t seem to deter Adam. In fact, it seems to perk him up. “Oooh,” he sing-songs. “ _Confidential._ Fancy, then.”

“That’s me,” Caitlin says and lifts the mug in toast. “The fanciest.”

Adam pretends to clink their cups and laughs. “Seriously, though, I feel like I’m never going to find out what the real workplace is like,” he says. “Pretty much everyone I know just says ‘it’s government, it’s confidential.’ Why is everyone I know a spy or something?”

“Not a spy, I can tell you that.” Caitlin hesitates. “But it _would_ be cool.”

“You could be a Bond girl.”

Caitlin considers snapping at him until she sees the quirk in his eyebrow and the cautious grin. She can feel her muscles relaxing as she laughs. Maybe this _is_ what she needed. Last night was - so maybe this isn’t a mistake. “No way. I’d _be_ Bond.”

“Park. Caitlin Park,” Adam says in a terrible Bond impression. 

“Or Anne Hathaway in the _Get Smart_ movie _!_ ”

“Or Vin Diesel in _The Pacifier.”_

“ _Or_ Anne Hathaway in _Ocean’s 8.”_

“Or Jason Bourne.”

“Or Anne Hathaway in _The Dark Knight Rises.”_

They’re both giggling now, though Adam is definitely trying to stifle his by shoving a cookie in his mouth. “Ok, _neither_ of those last Anne Hathaway ones are spies,” he points out once he’s finished choking one down. 

Caitlin shrugs and reaches for a macaron. “Con-woman, cat burglar, spy - same skill set, isn’t it? Anyway -” she says and takes it apart despite Adam’s scandalized face. She ignores the crumbling cookie in her hand in defiance. “Oh, shut up - anyway, I’m mostly doing clinical, administrative work, so being a spy would definitely be cooler. But -” she shoves one half of a cookie into her mouth, “- aren’t your parents neuroscientists or something? What’s so confidential about their work? New research?”

Adam rolls his eyes. “Yeah, sort of,” he mumbles. “But they work with the military, so it’s like -” He waves his hand vaguely. “Same difference, you know? If I had a nickel every time my dad started to tell a story about work and my mom interrupted with ‘Elijah, confidential!’ -”

“You wouldn’t have to pay for college.”

Adam snorts. “ _And_ I’d have a new car, too.”

Caitlin hms sympathetically. “Sounds like it sucks.”

He shrugs and takes a sip of coffee. “It’s fine. Used to piss me off, back in high school? But then Caleb and I did some snooping and -” He freezes, eyes wide, then ducks his head. “Well. Some things are better unknown.”

Caitlin isn’t quite sure how to respond.

Caleb Michaels, honestly, isn’t someone she does a lot of thinking about. Sure, he was cute and nice, if a little weird sometimes, and he absolutely had anger problems, but - well, they weren’t _her_ problems. She’d been happy for him and Adam when they started dating, and she'd been angry when they broke up because it made Adam so damn miserable, but those feelings had been admittedly… superficial. She and Adam weren’t close enough back then for her to feel any particular pull toward egging Caleb’s car for the heartbreak.

And yes, sure, she had wondered a bit about what happened in the fall of their senior year. But so had _everyone._ She was friendly with Caleb, but she didn’t know that she could truly call them _friends._ Ultimately, his jail sentence hadn’t done much except make her choose a new partner for group work in class. 

People had whispered that Adam had been involved in the _Incident,_ but Adam had never said. Regardless, Caitlin doesn’t think Caleb would ever hurt him, anger issues or not. Adam came back to school unharmed but with a haunted, empty look in his eyes. When she looks at him now, she sees it still.

“You -” she starts, then breaks off to start again. “If you want to talk about him, you can. I won’t go, y’know, gossiping to everyone about him. I won’t even tell Jess.” She hesitates, thinking. “I don’t have to ask questions, either. We can just - talk.”

Adam gnaws at his bottom lip for a moment, and she thinks he may be actually considering her offer. “I can’t,” he finally says, and his voice sounds pained. “It’s confidential.”

That night, Caitlin lies in bed and stares at the ceiling. She is dizzy with GRE practice questions and atypicals and Caleb Michaels, and part of her still misses her sisters’ quiet snores from across the room. Something does not make sense.

Ryan is used to getting texts from her at ridiculous hours. It’s sort of the basis of their relationship - she texts him in a panic over a test, and he responds with ASMR videos, or he emails her as dawn peeks out over clouds with a paper that needs proofreading, or sometimes they just send memes. She’s fallen asleep over the phone with him more than once, his presence soothing and grounding, like an anchor but also a hug. 

She thinks she could fall in love with him. She’s not sure why she hasn’t.

Either way, Ryan is a constant in her life and she knows he won’t mind when she shoots him a message at 2:47 in the morning.

_I want to find out what’s up with Caleb Michaels. Can you help?_

* * *

Caleb feels like screaming.

He doesn’t, of course. It’s not very _neighborly_ of him, Helen had pointed out during an experiment where he was required to read and recite the emotions of people as she zapped them one by one until she got to him. _It’s not very nice to disturb others with your temper tantrums,_ she had said as he choked on nothing at all. _Maybe if you’re nice, they’ll let you go._

He doesn’t think they will. His fingertips tingle sometimes when he thinks about it.

So, now he paces and grits his teeth and refuses to meet Oliver’s eyes through the layers of plexiglass. Oliver will tell him to save his energy. Oliver will tell him to save his anger. Oliver will tell him to pretend to give up, because that’s when they leave you alone. 

Caleb is terrified of being left alone. 

Even so, he knows Oliver is right. He’s been well-behaved lately - performed every trick, followed every command - and he’s been rewarded for it. An extra blanket on the bed. A few pictures on the wall that Alice had forced Agent Green to take. A letter from his mother that Wadsworth had allowed through on his birthday. 

He supposes he has to be grateful for small mercies. 

He sucks in a deep breath of stale, recycled air and forces himself to sit in the center of the room, forces himself to shut his eyes and shut down his senses, to block out the noise. His range is considerably larger than it was before he was admitted to Tier Five, and he wonders if he actually has the AM to thank for the upgrade. 

It’s not exactly an upgrade he _wants,_ but still. 

Someone in the labs is having a panic attack. Someone upstairs is feeling joy. Someone right outside the building is feeling giddy and nervous and proud. 

Pretty much everyone in Tier Five is depressed, but that’s nothing new. 

The keypad on his door pings and Caleb sighs as the familiar clack of heels announces Director Wadsworth’s arrival. “Good morning, Caleb,” she says kindly. She sounds like she’s smiling; she feels like she’s curious. That’s never a good combination. 

He does not open his eyes. “Good morning,” he replies in monotone. 

She isn’t perturbed. She never is anymore. “We have some exercises for you to do today,” she says. “Agent Green has breakfast for you waiting in the lab.”

Caleb does not move. 

Wadsworth sighs. “Your sister came by this weekend. I can promise you a reward if you cooperate with us today.”

Caleb wants to curse, wants to yell that he’s not a fucking dog that can be bribed with treats and scraps, but even he knows that’s not true. He can be. Besides, lashing out never gets him anywhere good. 

He opens his eyes, gets to his feet, and just hopes that today’s experiments don’t make him scream. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed and please scream with me, because Caleb is not allowed to and he needs to live vicariously through us.
> 
> cw:   
> -characters go to a bar and get drunk; one vomits in a trash can but it is not described  
> -bartender suggests a character drink pickle juice and raw egg as a hangover request. A character takes this advice (only referenced in text message, concoction is not described)  
> -Adam has a panic attack  
> -reference to AM-typical experiments done on atypicals


End file.
